Casey vs the Friday Night Deathslot, a oneshot
by ms.j
Summary: Because Casey needs a date.  Suggestion: read Casey vs Island Hopping for details


Casey vs. the Friday Night Deathslot

[] = internal thought

His mission, since he was too tired to fight it, was to veg out on television and devour his sorrows.

Colonel John Casey's Friday night had come to this.

He collapsed onto his couch. If he never saw another Beastmaster grill again in his life… Were there no other peons in the BuyMore with the ability to bench press 250 pounds?

"No," he answered his own question. "They're nerds. The only thing they had the ability to lift is the case of a Final Fantasy video game."

He grimaced as he grabbed the remote. The Gnome lived with him way too long. Now he knew the names of those time-wasting activities. "Call of Duty" was acceptable, but a story about magic and fairies? Not even on the radar.

The team was now "between missions," kinda like he was between jobs before Peanut Butter and Chocolate-ahem, Chuck and Sarah, announced they were going freelance. Freelance was good, except when the rent man needed him to be good on the rent.

[Leave it to the government to capitalize on the "good" missions.]

The first few weeks of freelancing was watching paper trails and just keeping an ear to the ground. It was quite boring.

Not that he was really hurting for cash-a few "side" missions for Old Glory, the secret account in the Virgin Islands (only because it was the "US" Virgin Islands); but disposable cash was necessary for day to day civilian life. Like cable and _petits fours_

Another groaned interrupted him. Hurt on the job. Not because of a dangerous mission, not because of black op, but simply because he picked up a grill the wrong way.

John Casey settled himself and prepared his mind to be taken by the Friday Night Deathslot.

A knock on his door pulled him away from an Alton Brown rerun. Cable these days were lost like the days of Reagan. With a grunt, Casey pushed off the couch and made his way to the door slowly. If the Gnome forgot his key again...he opened the door only to find a pair of legs that belonged to anyone but a dream...

"General?" He swallowed, standing in attention.

"Colonel." Jane Bentley gave him a beatific smile as she held up a small box. "Chocolate truffle?"

He decided to swallow his line of questioning about her appearance for the moment. There was 1972 Merlot in his cabinet looking for company.

* * *

><p>Thirty minutes hour later, Jane had not only gotten settled-her Christian Louboutin heels were off and matching suit jacket discarded on the couch next to her, but she assumed control of the remote. No one touched the remote in his apartment. Not even the Gnome. Ever. Under the penalty of a slow death. Even if "Patton" was coming on TCM and was digitally remastered.<p>

The aromatic fumes of the Merlot must have dulled his senses that much after opening the bottle, because he didn't feel as bothered by it. In fact, she looked like she belonged there with her legs tucked under her. Like the Queen of Sheba.

Wishing thinking, he questioned himself as he poured a second glass for both of them. The desert truffles she bought along were half-gone.

"Okay, I've got to ask." John found the courage to answer his internal inquiry, sitting down again. "Why are you here?" The last time they saw each other was the mission in Nassau.

She shrugged. "To share the spoils of war. Paris was lovely this year."

"And you came all the way here with truffles?"

"You don't wanna know who I had to killed to get these."

[Actually, I kinda do and was it quick and easy.] "No doubt a favor."

"No, I did have to kill to get these. Stopped in Rome before I came here and a buyer had these waiting for me. Broke a nail in the process. Some people just never know when to stop stealing."

He looked at her perfectly manicured hands. Killed? Naw, she was pulling his leg…then he remembered how some sorry fool at the Guns and Ammo convention earned a two-week stay in ICU for whistling at her "assets." He filed that info away for future use. Stilettos were interesting weapons.

"Well," He rubbed his chin. "They are black truffles."

"With dark chocolate of course." A cattish grin appeared on her face.

Did he just walk into some type of word trap? Dark chocolate truffles or dark chocolate-colored woman holding a box of truffles? He shook himself. Yep, the Merlot fumes were having an effect.

"Again, you avoided my question."

"A girl can't innocently come over and offer you truffles?"

"Unless you came to be consoled…" It came to him. "CIA didn't canned you, did they?"

Embarrassment appeared on her face. "Why, John, you're smarter than the average bear." She looked down, clearly put on the spot.

Suddenly the consoling part didn't sound so bad. "Sorry, I kinda figured…"

"It's okay." She dismissed with the wave of a hand. "I was in Europe to frankly beg for my job back. Beckman was on vacation and I wanted to catch up with her."

"Beckman? Vacation?" The two words didn't even sound right in the same sentence.

"My Intel proved to be reliable. Roan owed me."

"Roan Montgomery? Now I know I'll rather know about the body you left than any favor he owes you." Or Beckman. A visible shudder followed.

"The GRETA project proved to be such a debacle, no one else wanted to work with me back in Washington." She sighed. "Then a little birdie told me a kick-butt sniper was out of a job too."

He frowned. Gossip. He figured their unemployed statuses would get out. "Your little birdie should be shot on site."

"My little birdie also owed me the truffles."

John took in this sobering fact and raised his glass. "How about we finish Patton?"

The cattish grin reappeared and she passed the box of truffles. "A lovely suggestion."

* * *

><p>And when he checked his watch again, he noted that it was midnight and the Friday Night Deathslot was over.<p>

He stretched, noting the angle at which Jane's head was dropping. Was she asleep?

He cleared his throat. "Uhh, Jane..." He cleared his throat once more, then took the dangerous step of touching her arm.

She blinked, eyes fluttering. "Yeah?"

"You're falling asleep."

Stretching like a cat, she tried to suppress a yawn. "Really? I guess the time difference has become too much for me." She checked her own watch. "I forgot how long Patton was…there's always Major Dad…that'll wake me up."

"Major…what?"

"Major Dad." Suddenly, her eyes popped open. "Colonel, surely you have seen this?"

He drew a blank. "Noo…"

She squealed in delight. "Where's the remote?"

John figured he was losing his touch. He was only a millisecond delayed in grabbing it from her. "Maybe you should get some rest. It sounds too silly anyways."

"Afraid that you may have actually laugh at my silly little sitcom?"

Fear from a TV show? Never. Maybe a Communist documentary. "Just tell me the channel…'

For another hour, he subjected himself to "Major Dad" on demand…and fought to suppress his chuckles. It was kinda funny. Like a picture of what life would have been like for him had he remained a family man.

"Is that laughter I actually hear from the Colonel?" Jane folded her arms in triumph.

He grunted. No way would he call her bluff…or keep letting his eyes wander to her blouse…"So there were a few gunner jokes that I liked."

"Only a few jokes? If I recall, you had to wipe a few tears from your eyes."

"It was a dust particle."

"Dust? All yes, I see." Jane nodded. "Then, I think we should test this theory out again with another episode."

She leaned over him to grab it. He leaned it away from her reach and somehow she got tangled up in his grasp…a grasp that forced his mind to grasp the gravity of the situation: Beautiful woman, his arms, both of them tangled with their eyes locked on each other.

He was tongue tied. "Ummm."

She exhaled, looking away. Disappointment? "It's okay to let me go, John Casey."

The wild hair came to him—if he was going to do something she didn't expect, then this sounded like a good one.

John pulled her closer and decided to work on the consoling part. With kisses sweet as wine.


End file.
